


Please come back

by AlexavierTaiga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Horror, M/M, were!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexavierTaiga/pseuds/AlexavierTaiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John travel to Russia for a peculiar case. Sherlock gets a lot more involved than either of them had planned and things just go from bad to worse in the span of a few days. Will John finally confess his feelings for his friend in this desperate time? How will Sherlock react?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. However improbable

John heard loud scream from the forest. His eyes widened as he grabbed his gun and ran out the door, his heart beating rapidly as Sherlock screamed again.

~***~

"Sherlock!" John shouted, walking after the taller man "you can't just walk through a forest in the middle of the night looking for werewolves!" He clenched his jaw but kept walking, stumbling slightly over a fallen branch. Sherlock didn't turn around as he answered his friend  
"Because, John, a werewolf is our best bet at the moment. How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" Sherlock looked over his shoulder slightly at his friend, about to continue when John interrupted him  
"And why are werewolves not impossible? What evidence is there?!" John yelled, not realizing how loud he was  
“Tree.” Sherlock said as he easily jumped over a fallen tree “And keep your voice down” john scrambles over the fairly large tree on the ground as Sherlock continued “It is easier to know it than to explain why I know I-”. He stopped short when John pulled forcibly on his arm  
“Sherlock!” he said through clenched teeth  
“What?” the taller hissed back  
“Don’t go. Come back to the cabin” John swallowed thickly. He had never had reason to doubt his friend on his theories, and so did not now, even though he wanted desperately not too. “You’re the one who says ‘it is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence’ because it-”  
“-biases the judgement.” Sherlock finished.  
“Exactly. So come back with me.” John smiled, feeling as though he had won but Sherlock just continued walking  
“I’m sorry, John, but I have to do this.” 

Sherlock expected John to continue following him, but he didn’t realize he was alone until it was too late. He began to panic. He knows there are creatures out there, creatures he doesn’t want to come face to face with. Creatures that will see him before he will see them. Creatures that will either kill him or turn him. Creatures he has no defence against, as John had the only gun. He turned quickly and starts walking back the way he came only to see a pair of golden eyes, directly at level with his, staring at him. His own eyes widened and he stumbled backward as the creature in front of him slowly rose to full height, easily reaching ten feet. Suddenly the creature was on top of him, its teeth sinking into his shoulder. Sherlock let out a cry as pain flooded his body; he could no longer feel anything but the claws digging into his sides and the teeth sinking deeper. It felt as though his blood had turned too led, making his limbs feel heavy. He tried to push against it but couldn’t move his arms. Another scream escaped his lips, and for a second he wondered how as he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. The creature just dug its claws in deeper.

John ran through the thick forest in the direction of Sherlock’s cries, running faster than he had in a long time and though he wasn’t paying attention to where he was stepping, yet not tripping once. Soon his path was blocked by a huge figure; John drew his gun as it looked up at him, reviling Sherlock passed out on the ground beneath it. John did not remember firing his gun. He did not remember hauling the great, bleeding thing off of his friend. He only remembered checking for any signs of life and finding none. Not a single one. He remembered cupping Sherlock’s face and crying out softly “Sherlock, Sherlock come back. Please don’t leave me. Not like this. Not like this, Sherlock”. Tears filled John’s eyes and his heart beat erratically. He slowly got to his feet and carried his friend’s lifeless body the five miles back to the log cabin they had rented for the week, glancing down at Sherlock’s bloodied body and torn clothes. He didn’t notice when the younger’s blood stopped flowing from the wounds. He did not notice when his eyes blinked once. Yet still there were no signs of life.

Sherlock woke to find his face tucked between John’s elbow and chest, looking up at his friends face. He was crying. John was crying. John never cried, sure he got angry, but in all their years together Sherlock had never seen the army doctor cry, and it frightened him. It frightened him more than the creature had. John, don’t cry. Sherlock tried to speak, but he could not get the words out. His mouth did not move, it stayed exactly where it was, open slightly. He tried to take a deep breath, and it was then he realized he was not breathing. That he couldn’t breathe. John..! He tried again, but nothing happened. He could not move anything, not one part of his body. But he could hear, see and feel everything. Hear John’s every heartbeat thud-thud thud-thud-thud thud. Not right. He heard John’s even footsteps, his uneven breathing. Could see Johns jaw clench and unclench. John.... Could see his eyes dart around as if searching for danger. He could feel John’s arms tighten around him every time he lost his footing and feel his stomach clench with dread. John looked down at him, Sherlock could see him better now that the sun was beginning to rise, but he still could not move. It was then that he heard “Oh, Sherlock…” and felt tears fall against his face. John, please. I’m here… Sherlock was so concentrated on trying to get John’s attention that he did not notice when they entered the cabin. He did however notice when he was placed on one of the beds, the one he had claimed as his own, and John was suddenly gone. He tried to call out once more, but again nothing happened. He began to panic, thinking John was just going to leave him. John! Please, come back! John returned in less than a minute, but for Sherlock it felt like hours. He could hear the bath in the next room running and John once again scooped him into his arms, taking him into the bathroom.  
“I’m going to clean you up… I know you won’t even know, but you’ve always hated not being clean…” John mumbled.   
You know I’m still here! Sherlock felt his heart flutter, or it would have if it were beating. My heart’s not beating. He realized with a start but the thought was quickly replaced with a new one I won’t even know. Why won’t I know? I’m here, I know!  
“I can’t just leave you like this...” John said under his breath and carefully sat Sherlock on the short bench, leaning up against the wall  
Leave me? Don’t leave me! Sherlock mentally screamed at John who took no notice, instead he looked down blushing deeply.  
“Believe me, this is not how I wanted my first time undressing you to go.” John briefly hovered his hand over the shoulder that monster had sunk its teeth into before slowly and carefully removing Sherlock’s clothes. Sherlock felt a brief moment of embarrassment at the thought of john undressing him. Sure, the older man had seen him in the nude plenty of times as the detective had a habit of walking around the apartment without clothes on, but this was a lot more intimate.  
Wait. First time? Sherlock replayed what john said in his head and immediately felt a lot more embarrassed.

John couldn’t help but feel slightly perverted as he undressed his friend. He checked the bath water making sure it wasn’t too hot. He smiled softly to himself and mumbled “Checking the water temperature for a dead man…” his heart faltered. Dead. Sherlock was dead. He wasn’t coming back. Tears sprung to his eyes again and he attempted to wipe them away. “Dead…” he whispered, as though if he said it enough Sherlock would come back. John swallowed thickly and gently picked up Sherlock and placed him into the warm water and began to wash away the blood and dirt covering his body. John found himself being careful over Sherlock’s wounds as though he were still alive.

Sherlock winced mentally as John washed him. Not over the fact that his best friend was washing him, he got over that quite quickly and in fact was rather enjoying John’s gentle yet firm hands. No, he was wincing because it hurt. Every time John would brush a hand over his wounds pain flashed through his entire body. It was as though John was dabbing alcohol based antiseptic on his wounds, but the stinging went right throughout his veins. After a short while John stopped and just looked at Sherlock for a long time.  
What is it? Sherlock wanted to reach out and it pained him that he couldn’t. John looked so sad and Sherlock didn’t like it. John Reached out and brushed his fingers over the bite on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was his left.  
“We’re matching…” John mumbled and sighed softly before unplugging the bath and wrapping Sherlock in a fluffy towel and Carrying him back to the bedroom where he was dried and dressed in his sleeping pants, all the while John mumbled things about how crazy he must be to be taking care of a dead person like this. Now Sherlock felt as though he was about to cry.  
Why do you keep saying that John? Why do you keep saying that? I’m not dead I’m right here! I can hear you. I can feel you John, I’m not dead! John was now laying Sherlock properly on the bed, his fingers gently running down you youngers arm  
“You’re still warm…” he mumbled, looking out of the window at the sun, now over the horizon.  
Of course I’m still warm, I’M NOT DEAD! Sherlock willed his body to move, to breathe to do anything that would show he was alive. But the fact was, he wasn’t. He hadn’t taken a single breath since… well… he couldn’t even remember when. He hadn’t been able to move an inch, not even blink since he woke up. And his heart was not beating. But I am, John. I promise you, I am alive. John continued to run his fingers over Sherlock’s arm and soon the younger got the sensation of falling asleep. The last thing he heard was John’s whispered words  
“I love you, Sherlock. I love you. And I never got to tell you, I’m sorry… Please, come back...”

I love you too….. John.


	2. I heard

Sherlock gasped, his eyes flying open, his chest and stomach convulsing from the sudden flow of air. His stomach clenched and he leaned over the side of the bed as he vomited violently. He took a deep, shuddering breath and lay back on the bed, breathing heavily as he looked around the room. I can move. Sherlock grinned brightly and lifted a hand up in front of his face, wiggling his fingers. His sides and shoulder still hurt the pain worse now that blood was pumping through his veins and arteries again. Thud-thud thud-thud. “Strong, very strong” he mumbled to himself as he continued to examine his body. His wounds were leaking. Not bleeding, leaking, as though they had healed but not fully. His blood felt thicker as well, like the led was still coursing through his veins. But he was stronger now, he could feel it. Before he was unable to move due to the heaviness of his new blood, but now he could move easily. And he could breathe. Sherlock took a deep breath in; he could smell far better now as well, though he didn’t quite know why. Looking around, he realized that he was exactly where John had put him earlier that morning. Same clothes, same bed, same John. John. He was curled up by the younger man’s side with tear tracks down his cheeks. Sherlock remembered John crying as he was being carried back to the cabin, he remembered not knowing why. It was because he was dead. He didn’t know it at the time, but John did. Sherlock frowned; he was sure that he did actually die. After John put him on the bed Sherlock had felt himself drifting away. He was sure that was death, but apparently not. In fact he felt more alive than ever. But these thoughts did nothing to calm the detective down. He did not remember what had happened to cause him to die. The last thing he could remember before waking up in John’s arms was realizing he was alone in the forest. Sherlock frowned and looked at the older man, finding his voice, he whispered hoarsely  
“John? John wake up...” he rolled onto his side so they were face to face, wincing as the moved his shoulder, and gently shook him “John…” John tensed and the tears started flowing down his cheeks again. 

John woke to the sound of Sherlock’s voice. It sounded as though he was right there talking to him. Of course Sherlock was lying next to him, dead and lifeless. The voice was just in his head. But it was so clear, so life like, and John wanted to believe. He wanted to believe it was real. People always said ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ and John did. He believed in this man more than he believed in anyone else. More than he believed in his old army buddied, his ex-commander, his own family. More than he believed in himself. But this was different. He refused to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see his best friend’s motionless body lying there beside him. He let himself pretend. Let himself pretend that he was still with him. That his voice was real and not just his mind playing tricks,   
“John!” he heard it again, but this time there was a gentle touch to his arm and… Sherlock was crying. John scrunched up his eyes tighter. Damn his subconscious. Now his head-Sherlock was crying. He clenched his jaw tightly and squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head down. Suddenly John was shoved hard in the shoulder; he gasped and opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him with wide tear filled eyes. “John…” he said softly. John couldn’t speak. That’s it. I’m crazy. He took a deep breath and just looked at what he could only assume was a figment of his imagination. The Sherlock didn’t move, not until it spoke again. “John, John I’m here…”  
The two men sat in silence for a long time, neither of them quite believing what they saw, nor knowing what to do next. It was John this time to break the silence, taking a deep breath through his nose and clearing his throat. He shook his head slightly  
“No… No this… this isn’t happening. This is not… happening.” John flung himself from the bed and Sherlock slowly sat up, gritting his teeth  
“John, I-” he started, but John cut him off  
“No, just shut up, Sherlock!” once again there were tears in his eyes, John cursed himself and turd back to the younger man “explain yourself, Sherlock! What the hell did you- Why?!” John did not realize how loud his voice had gotten; causing Sherlock to shrink back momentarily before speaking calmly  
“I do not know what happened after I started to leave the forest last night, John. I blacked out, I don’t know how long for, only that when I woke I was completely paralysed and..” the younger swallowed thickly “essentially dead. But I could still hear you. I heard you john, but you didn’t hear me” Sherlock couldn’t stop the slight quiver in his voice as he blinked back tears. John rubbed a hand over his face, trying to sort out his brain   
“Heard what, Sherlock?”  
“I love you”


	3. They're not real.

John stared at Sherlock for a long time; or rather it felt like a long time, though it was only a few minutes. Sherlock was patient, not moving from where he sat on the bed, his breathing becoming more raged as the pain slowly worsened, but he was beginning to get agitated at how long it was taking his, friend? Were they more than friends now?, was taking. Slowly john began to talk, Sherlock knew he was thinking through each and every word thoroughly before saying it.  
“You… You said you saw and heard everything…?” John looked into his eyes then quickly down again  
“And felt.” Sherlock added, causing John to worry  
“Felt? Felt how?” Sherlock saw all of John’s muscles tighten. Nervous. Scared. Worried.  
“I could feel the pain. The pain from my wounds, John, I can feel it now. I-” Sherlock stopped short as John ran from the room, returning with a glass of water and some tablets  
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I didn‘t think-”  
“You thought me dead. Don’t apologize for not giving a dead man pain relief.” Sherlock quickly took the medication then continued with what he was saying “I could feel you, feel that I was in your arms and that my body was not moving. More than that, I felt scared. Scared that you thought I was dead. Scared that I wasn’t breathing.” Sherlock stopped then and took a deep breath, as though making sure that yes, he could breathe now. When he continued a slight blush covered his cheeks “when you bathed me, I felt… embarrassment, nerves, joy… but still that fear. When you said I wouldn’t know that you had washed me, that you didn’t want to leave me..” Sherlock suddenly felt a new wave of fear wash over him and he scrambled out of bed towards John “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here..!”  
“Whoa, Sherlock!” John placed his hands on the younger man’s hips only because of the wounds on his sides he told himself. “Sherlock, it’s okay, I’m not going to leave. I’m staying right here.” Sherlock nodded and leaned heavily against john for support, the pain too much for him to handle standing up.  
“Okay..” 

John carefully sat Sherlock back on the bed, watching wide eyed as he began to process what was going on. Sherlock was dead, only he wasn’t. Not really. And he had heard, felt and seen everything that happened last night. He heard me. Oh god her even repeated those words just now. John looked up and blushed softly as he spoke  
“you heard me... heard me say that-”  
“that you love me.” Sherlock interrupted him and John remembered to be angry with him later for it  
“yes.. well-” he started, but Sherlock interrupted again  
“But you didn’t hear me. I love you too, John.” Sherlock smiled sheepishly and john wanted to smile back, but his face went blank. This was too much. In less than twenty-four hours his best friend had died, he had confessed his feeling to said friend only to have him come back to life and not only accept John’s feelings but to replicate them. John could not handle it. He stood up and went to leave the room, but he stopped and turned to Sherlock.  
“I need you to just… shut up for a moment. I’m going to stitch you back up, put some antiseptic on your wounds, and then we are going to figure out what the fuck is actually going on here.”

John went to the bathroom and grabbed the cabin’s first-aid kit. He would have much rather gone to the hospital, but they were forty minutes out of town, with both men unable to drive and no one would believe Sherlock had been attacked by a werewolf. Werewolf John thought. It wasn’t a werewolf. Werewolves aren’t real. He got back to the bedroom with everything he needed and helped to remove Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock didn’t care, he was use to walking around the flat with little on, and usually John wouldn’t give it a second thought, well that’s not true. He would give it many thoughts, later when he was alone. But after their mutual confessions and John having washed Sherlock the night before, he felt oddly uncomfortable to be doing it again. Sherlock stayed silent, which John was grateful for, as the older man began to remove the sodden bandages, starting with the shoulder bite. Turned through a bite. John shook his head quickly to get rid of the thoughts and gasped softly when he saw the shoulder, causing Sherlock to look at it quickly. It was healed, almost completely. No longer an open wound as it had been that night. John frowned, eyes still wide as he ran a gloved finger lightly over it, Sherlock flinched and winced, but stayed relatively still. John looked at his finger to find an almost clear, slightly pinkish, liquid on it from Sherlock’s body. He looked to Sherlock, who was paler than usual. He looked absolutely petrified. John petted his knee “I’m sure its fine…” he was lying, and he knew Sherlock could tell, but it helped both men calm down just a little bit. John took the small bottle of antiseptic and squeezed a drop over each puncture mark, where that thing’s teeth must have entered Sherlock’s body. Sherlock grit his teeth to stop from crying out at the pain and John gently rubbed his leg before re-wrapping his shoulder in a new, clean, bandage. Next he checked the wounds on Sherlock’s abdomen. They were the same, almost completely healed.  
“What the hell…” John murmured, as he wrapped Sherlock back up. He went to hand his shirt back but Sherlock shook his head  
“I’d like to keep it off, I’m really hot.” He carefully lay back down on the bed and sighed heavily from the pain. John frowned  
“you don’t have a temperature. In fact your skin is ice cold..!”  
“Well I don’t feel ice cold.” Sherlock closed his eyes and went back to not speaking. John went to the small sitting room and fired up his laptop. As he waited for it to warm up and actually turn on, it hadn't worked properly since Sherlock had spilt whatever it was on it a few months back, he called the only person he could think of. Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
